


slow descent

by uselesseunoia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, Implied Cannibalism, Transformation, is it cannibalism if you're not even sure whether you're human anymore?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 16:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21917374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uselesseunoia/pseuds/uselesseunoia
Summary: snippets in time as one comes undone, becomes somethingother.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	slow descent

it starts small, like all things. a chipped brick. a loose pebble. a crack in the most intricate façade. nothing obvious, nothing noteworthy, nothing _worth noticing_. in the grand scheme of things, it is even more inconsequential than the smallest ant. just a heaviness in his limbs, the slightest ache in his bones upon waking—from overworking, surely. he had been exhausted the day before.

nothing unusual. nothing to be alarmed about.

days pass, but the pain doesn't. it grows, in fact, and nothing seems to help. it doesn't matter, he tells himself, because it is nothing. and what is the point of making something out of nothing? he has neither the time nor patience for pointless musing.

so what if his feet drag more and more often, as if they aren't quite working anymore? so what if his fingers aren't as nimble as they used to be, if it takes the slightest bit more effort to move his body the way he wanted it to? he’s just tired. it was reasonable, he told himself, after—

_after—_

—what was he thinking about, again? unease fills his mind as he chases a thought that stubbornly remains just out of reach, resignedly giving up after several long minutes. he was just tired, he tells himself again, and clears his mind in order to fall asleep.

(he wakes up breathless and covered in cold sweat, a scream locked in his throat, but he recalls nothing of his dreams.

he wakes up to a cold breeze blowing in through his open window, and gouges that look as if they had come from razor sharp claws on his windowsill.)

it is harder to concentrate, afterwards. he is tired more often than not, and restless, scopaesthesia an itch just beneath his skin that he can't quite scratch. he feels as if he is being watched; no, he knows he is being watched, he knows they are _watching_. 

he feels eyes following him wherever he goes, and startles awake at night until he doesn’t. their gaze is heavy, suffocating, almost a tangible weight that pulls him down down down into the earth <strike>(into his grave)</strike>. when he sees a gleam of white out of the corner of his eye he whirls, desperate to find the person _(are you sure that it's a person?)_ that is haunting his every step.

(desperate to find proof that he isn't losing his mind.)

they are watching.

_(who’s they?)_

he _knows_ they are watching. they are always always watching, and waiting, waiting for the moment when his guard slips and—

there is nothing there but dancing shadows.

he feels cold all the time, now. as if he took a plunge into a freezing lake and forgot to leave. everyone else is so warm, the heat of a crowd bordering on uncomfortable, and he can feel it. feel them. feel the difference, the distance between himself and everyone else, as if he had been quietly separated from them without his knowing.

(as if he was becoming something Other.)

perhaps he should be concerned about it, but he isn't. he is rarely concerned about anyting these days, just as he is rarely angry or sad or scared or happy. soon enough it becomes just another fact of life: the sky is blue, grass is green, water is wet, and he is always cold. nothing manages to thaw his frozen bones, so he learns to stop trying.

not that he made much of an effort in the first place.

when warmth becomes a distant memory, well, it is just another thing lost to the seas of time.

taste, eventually, is another thing that fades. he does not mourn the loss, because loss implies that an absence is felt.

he still eats, though it is more habit than anything, though it is merely a need born of necessity. _(but is it truly a necessity?)_ the food is ash in his mouth and he swallows it down, again and again until the food is all gone. rinse, repeat.

he does not know when it first happens, only that it snuck up on him, but he remembers the way it felt. the blood explodes in his mouth, on his tongue, filling his nostrils with a copper tang and it was _good_, the first thing he’s had that truly felt good in awhile. the familiar-unfamiliar texture of meat, the satisfying crunch of bones giving way under his sharp, sharp teeth—

when he is aware next, he finds himself surrounded by bones and shredded flesh, the remnants of a messy meal. his shirtfront is bright red layered on rusty brown, as is the rest of his clothing, but he barely takes note of that fact. what he _does_ note is the lack of familiar pain that had become his constant companion in his waking hours. 

he stretches limbs that feel brand new, enjoying the action that is free of pain, then cleans himself up and continues with his day as if nothing had happened. 

because nothing had.

occasionally he lingers, hesitates, just for a moment. barely any time at all. the moon watches from the night sky, big and bright and staring right at him. all-seeing, all-knowing.

did he always have claws that rend and cut through flesh with the same ease as cutting through the air? he thinks his eyes didn’t used to see so well in the dark, but he does not remember such a time. had creatures always run away from him when they sensed his approach, as futile as it was? had shadows always bled from his wounds, dark and thick and viscous?

he hasn't seen what he looked like in a long time.

(how long is a long time? how long has it been? a day, a week, a month, a year, a century—what's the difference? it all runs together like rivers converging until they become the sea.)

somehow he gets the sense that he would not recognise himself even if he did look at his own reflection, but he brushes that thought aside with practiced ease. and yet—

is he himself, anymore?

(is he human, anymore?)

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

it doesn't matter.


End file.
